The Undone
by midnight-blue
Summary: What might've happened after The Life You Save


**title:** The Undone

**author:** Kristin

**rating:** pg

**disclaimer:** I, in no way, own these characters. If I did, many, many things would never have been as they were

**summary**: What might've happened after "The Life You Save"

**notes:** I desperately wanted to use a passage from Samuel Beckett in this piece, but it was from a work which wouldn't have been translated from French in time for this era. So, alas, I had to renege on that idea. I did, however, get to use Tennyson. I would've used T.S. Eliot, but I thought with Margaret's fondness for Browning, she might not like Eliot's deviance from a fixed-form, hence, Tennyson. Anyway, enough rambling.

* * *

A seemingly unbreakable knot had woven throughout her stomach when she'd heard of Charles's venture to Battalion Aide. Their previous confrontation in the Officer's Club--her gentle concern and his disconcerting near-monosyllabic, despondent nature--ran through her mind. Add to that his strange preoccupation with the patient he and B.J. had brought back from the dead, and it was enough to ensure a mild bout of indigestion for a night. Worry would do that, she'd learned. He hadn't returned yet, but he would, soon, and her initial thoughts that he would immediately retreat to his phonograph were starting to waver. When people were unwilling, or unable, to speak of their plights, they often found refuge in the hum of incessant chatter around them, releasing their emotions to the claustrophobic air above the origin of all human bother: the mind. She didn't know if that's what Charles wanted now, or ever, but she would wait. And learn. 

It surprised her slightly that she _wanted_ to know how he would choose to deal with whatever had been troubling him so. She knew it was telling, being a reticent sort of person herself; the way she dealt with true problems and true suffering was the way you knew who she really was. It was why she realized she wasn't as far away from Charles as she'd sometimes thought.

She supposed the sharing of earthbound miseries reminded everyone what living really was. And, after all, it was the one thing, at least, that everyone could understand about each other.

At this time of night in the Officer's Club, there were relatively few patrons, so the incessant chatter was more of a whimsical whisper.

The door opened and in he came, collar tousled, hair in only slight disarray. She wanted to chide him for the stunt he'd pulled. It was selfish, after all. She wanted to think of it that way, to distance herself from the new, burgeoning feelings suddenly giving rise within her as she felt the overwhelming relief of seeing his physical form in front of her.

As soon as he saw her, he took the seat furthest from her, hand almost instantly around a glass of firewater.

"Charles--" she stood to move towards him.

"Margaret, please, I am presently averse to lectures on the many ways I was selfish and inconsiderate by risking my life to seek an emboldened status, to shed my reputation as the nameless, invisible surgeon who only waltzes with death, but doesn't challenge it. Spare me the diatribe."

She sat down at that, two seats away from him. She had no idea where his thoughts came from, but, with some ponderance, realized they were things she might very well have accused him of, at some point, in reference to this stunt. But she had a perspective she often didn't have and it, obviously, altered the situation.

"Charles, I don't think you waltz with death and I'm not sure why you'd think I would care whether you _challenge_ it or not."

He didn't answer, but merely waved his left hand at her, desperately hoping she would leave him alone within the minute.

"Do _you_ think you need to challenge death?"

She thought things were starting to connect, but he would have to give a little before she could really know.

"Charles..."

"Major, I have enjoyed your company for the evening. If you would like to ensure you do not outstay your welcome, you will kindly leave, now, before I grow weary of your incessant inquiries."

"Charles--"

"Major, vacate, depart, withdraw. Shall I put it another way so you understand? _Bug out_!"

"Winchester, you harass a patient, you ignore everyone, you abandon your duties _here_ to do God knows what at the Aid station. What did you want there, Charles? Glory, power, a brush with the death you seem to be so casually flirting with right now? Did you find it, Charles? I hope you did. I hope it was worth it. If something had happened to you--" her voice, which had been rising in intensity, with annoyance, to match the irritability on display from Charles, now cracked at the end a bit, causing her anger to swell. This time, anger at herself, for allowing her emotions to show through. She didn't want him to know why she'd really worried. It would do no good.

She gathered her strength. "If something had happened, we would've been short a surgeon."

She threw her money on the bar and stormed out, only sparing a glance as she exited, her heart dropping simulatenously with his shoulders.

As soon as she went back to her tent, regret rose within her. She'd left him in the bar--knowing he felt in a bad state about something--thinking he was simply expendable. As a surgeon _and_ a friend.

She wanted to make it up to him and a thought took hold. It occurred to her that he probably already had a collection of Tennyson's poetry, being the erudite man that he was, but she hoped it would be the gesture itself that spoke to him. And if it was a redundant gift, she was certain he wouldn't hesitate to tell her so. She had received the book--a collection of Tennyson's poetry--from a friend who thought she needed to get her head out of sentimental Browning sonnets. And now she wanted to _give_ it to a friend who needed to get his out of shadows.

Maybe...maybe he wanted to find life. Something had happened to him that night when they were being fired upon and everyone was ducking for cover. Then he'd been focused on the patient who'd died. He'd gone to the front--to figure out how to forget death. It wasn't what she would consider to be the wisest plan of action. There was certainly something deeper to all of this, but now that she had what she thought was a bit of insight, she turned to the Tennyson poem most precious to her, and underlined her favorite passage. Turning back to the front cover, she jotted down the page number, indicating he should read it, above all, and wrote a note to him.

That done, she cautiously approached The Swamp, hoping he hadn't returned yet and she could leave it for him there. Thankfully, he wasn't there. She left it on his bed. Returning to her tent, fatigue quickly overtook her and she retreated to _her_ bed, hopeful that the gift would mean something to him.

* * *

This would be the perfect night, of any, to get drunk into oblivion. And yet, he had no desire to go beyond the slight buzz he was nursing. As he drank his last sip, he stared into the bottom of the glass for endless seconds. 

He had wanted to know what death was like, what it was--how it felt. He'd come back to this miserable place, out of duty, but a part of him was still unsettled. _Would be_ unsettled for a little while yet. He gave life so frequently, rarely thinking of the weight of it, or the weight of its absence. People here had meaning, connections to one another. It made the abundance of life sweeter and the last tendrils of it worth clinging to. He wanted to feel that. That edge of vitality. He felt close to some, though they would never know it. But...did they feel close to him? _Care_ about him? If he hadn't made it back alive from Battalion Aide, would he have been more than just a shrug and a "That's a shame"? He considered Margaret his closest friend here, but her exiting remark made his certainty waver.

Paying his tab, he left with his hands in his pockets, grateful only B.J. was in the tent--he slept a bit sounder. He wanted to put on a record, very quietly, and just hover over the speaker to hear it. As he neared his bed, though, an object caught his eye. A book. He switched on his lightbulb, sitting down as he ran his hand over the cover.

He opened it, seeing a note indicating he should turn to p.30. He did so, leaning back to read what had been underlined.

_Death closes all: but something ere the end,  
Some work of noble note, may yet be done,  
Not unbecoming men that strove with Gods.  
The lights begin to twinkle from the rocks:  
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep  
Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends,_  
'_Tis not too late to seek a newer world.  
Push off, and sitting well in order smite  
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds  
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths  
Of all the western stars, until I die.  
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:  
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,  
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.  
Tho' much is taken, much abides; and tho'  
We are not now that strength which in old days  
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are;  
One equal temper of heroic hearts,  
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will  
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield._

"Ulysses," he said aloud, softly, fondly, smiling at the message inherent within.

He turned back to the cover to read what had been written:

_Charles--_

_You find refuge in music. I find refuge in words. I'm not...gifted enough to write anything poetic. So I thought I'd just give you the words, and let you do the rest. We are alike, you know. We don't let on how we really are. What's really bothering us. I'm trying to open up more. If you're ever inclined to talk, you know where I am. You'll have to supply the liquor. I think you should know--you make miracles. Oh, and you're a damn good surgeon. You know pieces of me--you have pieces of me that will never be available to anyone else._

_Love always,  
Margaret_

A week ago, he would've thought her stream-of-consciousness slightly out of character. But then he remembered the way her voice broke in the bar, and her insistence at trying to figure out what had been bothering him.

And he stopped trying to discern the validity of her openness, or the origin of it. He felt a warmth within, at the implications of what she'd written. He set the book down, shut off the light, and exited The Swamp, heading in a familiar direction. He guessed she was asleep by now, but he had an overwhelming urge to see her and touch her and he hoped her charity extended this late into the evening. If he was lucky, he could sneak in and out without ever awakening her at all.

He very carefully opened the door, stepping inside slowly as he allowed his eyes to adjust. He knelt next to her, suddenly fascinated with the way her hair fell across her forehead and her eyes relaxed in complete slumber. It was an adorable sight and he wanted to memorize it. He suddenly had a wish that he could be in a position to see her like this, often, but in case it never happened again...

He crept forward, reaching out to brush her hair away from her brow, and placed a kiss upon her forehead.

"I think you are poetic," he whispered.

Then he stood and moved towards the door, to exit.

"Charles."

He stopped, briefly apprehensive.

"Are you okay?"

He dropped his head a bit, thinking of Tennyson and heroes and death. And how he'd found a bit of life in the sloppy cursive of a friend.

"I think I will be."

And as he walked back to The Swamp, he was smiling in the dark.

_fin._


End file.
